


Shred of Blue

by anotetofollow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But mostly porn, F/M, First Lavellan, Inquisition didn't happen AU, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, as a treat, okay maybe little a plot, warden blackwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotetofollow/pseuds/anotetofollow
Summary: Timeline where the events of Inquisition did not take place. Blackwall is still a Grey Warden recruiter, Lavellan is still the First of her clan. They meet by chance and things get a little steamy. I don't know what more I can say, it's completely self-indulgent smut.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Lavellan
Kudos: 49





	Shred of Blue

He hears about the clan from another traveller, a merchant moving east as he heads west. The man had not spoken to them, only glimpsed the sails of their aravels among the trees as he passed through the forest.

“They kill humans, you know,” the man says across the fire they are sharing for the night. “Skin them like rabbits.”

Blackwall says nothing. Tales to scare children, he thinks, or at least the last part. He has traded with Dalish clans before, through the years, albeit rarely. Their grudging respect for the Grey Wardens has allowed him privileges not usually afforded to humans. Another thing undeserved.

But they have goods one cannot find elsewhere in Thedas, and so the next morning he packs up and travels deeper into the forest. The clan scouts find him before he finds them. Barest whisper of leaves and a drawn arrow pressed between his shoulderblades. It is lowered once he states his business, shows them the Warden-Constable's badge. The scouts lead him through the trees by deer tracks, following trail signs Blackwall cannot see, to an open clearing where the aravels sit in the undergrowth like boats in a harbour.

He is not permitted to come closer, Warden or no. He waits at the edge of the ring of trees while the scouts go to fetch their _hahren_ , watching the clan as closely as he is able without causing offence. There is music coming from somewhere, a stringed instrument like a harp but discordant and strange, and the high-pitched shrieking of young children. Smell of bonfire and roasted meat and leaf litter. The air is still here, warm, the forest holding most of the wind at bay.

Eventually the _hahren_ arrives to greet him, along with several of the clan’s craftsmen. They speak to him respectfully, but cautiously, and he does the same. From their stocks he selects a whetstone of celestine black, a package of hardtack speckled with seeds, a length of sturdy rope and a knife with a blade so sharp it would cut through wood like paper. The Dalish have no need for common currency, and so he trades in kind; a stoppered bottle of lamp oil, a box of salt, news of soldiers patrolling the road to the north.

They are finishing their trade when someone steps out of the trees towards them. Her _vallaslin_ spiders across her forehead and across her freckled cheeks, pointed ears peeking out of dark curls that fall to her shoulders. Unlike her kin she does not wear hunting leathers, but a garment of intricately embroidered cloth with a spray of feathers at the shoulder. From this, and the gnarled oak staff she carries, Blackwall knows she is one of their mages. Since the beginning of the war he has occasionally encountered a rogue apostate in the hills, but not often. Magic is still strange to him, something alien and other. Still, the mage smiles at Blackwall with more warmth than her fellows have shown him.

“Andaran atish’an, Grey Warden,” she says. “What news from the south?”

From the way the _hahren_ looks at her then — like a parent reprimanding a child — Blackwall guesses that she is not a leader, as he knows some mages are amongst the Dalish. “Did Deshanna send you here, Tanith?” he asks.

“She did not. I’m allowed to move without the Keeper’s instruction.”

“We are busy, da’len. I am sure the Warden has little time for chatter.”

“I’m sure that’s up to the Warden.” She looks up at Blackwall, narrowing her eyes conspiratorially. “You can spare a few moments for the First of Clan Lavellan, can’t you?”

Her tone is haughty, with humour at the edges, and the _hahren_ sighs to hear it. “We do not require news of _shemlen_ conflicts, Tanith. They are not yours to concern yourself with.”

“You said yesterday that we might move south before long. Isn’t it better to know what’s waiting for us?”

Blackwall isn’t sure what the right course of action is. It seems that someone will be insulted no matter how he answers. But the woman is looking at him with such intensity that he can see no way to refuse her. “I’m happy to share what I know,” he says. “Though that isn’t much. There’s word that the Chantry are trying to call an end to this war, at last. Some rumours about insurrection in Orlais, but I wouldn’t call that ‘news’. I wish I could be of more use, but my work keeps me rather isolated from the world.”

“We have that in common,” she says. A strange pensiveness has come over her face now, like a cloud moving across the sun.

The _hahren_ says something stern to her in Elvish and she sighs, moves her staff to her left hand.

“Dareth shiral, Warden,” she says. “Thank you for sharing your news.”

As she walks away the _hahren_ shakes his head. “My apologies for her. Tanith is the First to our Keeper. Talented, but… wilful.”

“It’s no trouble.” Blackwall thinks of the pink curve of her lip, the freckles on her bare arms. Thoughts he should not be having.

Their trading finished, Blackwall says farewell to the _hahren_ and quickly retreats from the camp. He is certain he can feel eyes on him, watchers from the canopy. By the time he is certain no one has followed him it is nearing full dark. He finds a copse of trees suitable for camping, clears the ground of detritus before pitching his tent and starting a fire. There’s a little dried meat left in his pack, and he chews it while staring into the flames. Nights on the road are always the longest. When he is travelling or fighting or working he can keep his mind in the present, not let it slip into the dark recesses of the past. Rest, for him, brings little comfort.

A twig snaps nearby, and Blackwall is on his feet with his sword drawn before he has time to think about it.

“You can put that away, Grey Warden.” The Dalish mage — Tanith, the _hahren_ had called her — steps into the circle of firelight.

Blackwall lets out a breath, sheathes his sword. “My apologies. You startled me.”

“It wasn’t my intention. I forget that _shemlen_ senses are not so finely tuned as ours.”

For a moment he stands there awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. “Is there something I can help with?”

Tanith laughs. She brims with laughter, this woman; it is in the decisive lift of her chin, the lilt of her voice, the lines at the corner of her eyes. Eyes a green so dark they are almost black, the colour of moss after rain, now glittering in the firelight. “I have another trade to offer,” she says. “If you’ll hear it.”

“I’m afraid I already gave your fellows all I had in trade.”

“That isn’t quite what I had in mind.” She lifts her staff and brings it down hard against the ground. A great root tears up through the earth by the fire, knotting around itself before falling still. Tanith sits on it, curling her toes in the churned soil. “I have some magic. If you’ll let me, I’ll happily share some of it.”

Blackwall does not want to betray how alarmed he was by her first display. “How so?”

“Small charms,” she said, placing her staff on the ground. “I can weave a little magic around something you own. Make you faster, or stronger, if you like. Better protected from harm.”

“That last one sounds useful.”

“Very well.” She holds out her hand to him. “Give me something of yours. Something you keep on your person.”

Blackwall hesitates for a moment, then unfastens the Warden-Constable’s badge from inside his collar. He hands it to her, fingers brushing against the warmth of her palm. “I haven’t any way to pay you.”

“You have,” she says. “A Grey Warden must have stories to tell.”

“Stories?” He knows he sounds like a fool, repeating her words back to her.

“Yes. Tales from your life, out there in the world.” She gazes out into the trees, something wistful in her eyes. “I’d like to hear some of them. That’s what I want in trade.”

Blackwall sits down on his stump by the fire. “I don’t know whether anything that’s happened to me would be of interest. Recruitment’s not the most interesting life.”

“Hiding in a forest and worshipping dead gods is not the most interesting life.” Bitterness gives her voice a sharp edge. “Tell me anything. Anything at all.”

“Very well. Let me think.” As he searches his memories for a tale Tanith begins casting her charm over the badge. Her hands move gracefully, as though she were weaving, and the metal glows softly where she touches it. It’s almost hypnotic, watching her work. He drags his eyes away and tries to concentrate.

He settles on a story that Warden Blackwall told him while they were travelling together, takes it for his own as he once took the man’s name and title. The way he tells it is stiff, halting, but Tanith listens as attentively as a crowd watching a Val Royeaux minstrel. He wonders what it must be like for her, living cut off from the world. While he has spent these past years in the wilderness, he once lived as rich and full a life as any man. She, dreaming of something she has never known; he, mourning something he will never have again.

Eventually his telling grinds to a halt, around the same moment that she lifts her hands away from his badge. It has lost its temporary luminescence now, the metal catching the light as she stands up and hands it back to him.

“I wouldn’t go charging into the jaws of an Archdemon,” she says. “But it will provide some small protection.”

“Thank you.”

She doesn’t move away. All of a sudden Blackwall is acutely aware of how close she is standing to him. The light fabric of her garment skims across the swell of her hips, the suggestion there a torment. Then she reaches out, runs her fingers through his hair, brings her hand down to cup his cheek. The tenderness of the gesture takes his breath for a moment.

“How long has it been since you last took a lover, Grey Warden?” she asks.

It takes a long moment for him to answer the question, still disarmed by the feel of her skin against his. “Long enough.”

Tanith smiles. “Another thing we have in common.”

He is frozen by her. The implication of her words seems abundantly clear, but he assumes it is a trick, a trap of some kind. He cannot conceive of a world in which this woman, warm and strange and beautiful, would want a man like him. There must be some ulterior motive, some reason for her touching him so. He remembers the dull weight of the scout’s arrow in his back and does not move.

Her face falls, just a little, and her hand falls with it. If her disappointment is counterfeit then her performance is more than convincing. Like a spell breaking, she takes a step back.

“I am too forward,” she says, half a smile playing on her lips. “As usual. My apologies, Warden.”

Blackwall’s words come out hoarse. “You are no such thing.”

“No?” She tilts her head to one side. “Then why so reluctant?”

“I’m not used to this,” he says. “Not any more. It’s been a long time since a woman approached me so.”

“These do not strike me as reasons to hesitate.”

“No,” he smirks. “Now that you mention it, I suppose they don’t.”

Tanith flows to him like water, the soft weight of her body in his lap before he can open his mouth to speak, her arms draped around his shoulders. There is a scent on her that he almost can’t place, and then he has it; grassland after a summer shower, clean and alive. She looks at him, smiling as she runs her fingers across his neck, through his beard.

He manages to speak. “Is this allowed? For you?”

“What?” she asks. “Going to bed with a _shemlen_?”

“Yes.”

“It isn’t permitted, no,” Tanith says. “Have you always done precisely as you are told?”

“I couldn’t claim that.”

“Then neither of us are pure of heart.”

She kisses him then, her lips soft and deliberate against his. His hands move to the supple curve of her waist, down to where the fabric has hitched up her thighs. He feels soft flesh with taut muscle beneath, the gentle indents of stretch marks spooling across her skin. Tanith makes quick work of the buckles strapping his breastplate to him, tosses the pieces aside as she removes them. When he is down to his undershirt she stands to lift it over his head, humming with pleasure, then returns to her careful ministrations. Her mouth is hot, sharp teeth nipping as she explores the expanse of his chest, his shoulders, his stomach. Conscious suddenly of the open landscape he takes her hand, pulls her upwards.

Blackwall nods towards the tent. “We should go in.”

“Why?” she smiles, toying with the hair on his chest. “It’s a warm night.”

“Privacy?”

Tanith looks around, her pointed ears swivelling a little. “There’s no one nearby. If I hear anything I’ll be sure to tell you.”

That is enough for him. Standing in front of her like this he realises how much smaller she is than she had first appeared. The top of her head barely brushes his chin, the wild curls of her hair adding a little to her height. He has to lean down to kiss her, feeling brutish and clumsy beside her easy grace. There had been a time in his life where he could speak to a woman with no hesitation. He had spent many an evening enjoying the company of clever, pretty women, sharing a drink, a conversation, a bed. These things feel like they happened to another man. He has been starved of touch for so long, barely able to hold the gaze of another person since he ran from Orlais. Even his own flesh is repulsive to him now, the body of a man he would rather forget. There is a part of him that hurts when she touches him.

Maybe Tanith feels it, because she holds him at arm’s length for a moment. “You aren’t here.” She taps her finger against his chest, over his heart. “You’re here.” Taps again on his forehead.

“I’m sorry. This might take some getting used to.”

“Your body remembers,” she says. “Even if you do not.” She reaches down, cupping the hardness that has been building ever since she walked into the campsite.

It sparks an ache so profound that he tips forward, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder. His breath comes rough and shallow as she strokes him through his breeches, fingers slow and light and clever.

“See?” she says.

And she is right. Like waking from a long sleep, he remembers. He is not Blackwall then, nor Rainier either, simply a man entangled with a woman he desires. She deserves more than his hesitation. He gathers her close, grinding himself harder against her palm as he kisses her eager mouth, the warm column of her neck. Tanith almost purrs as he touches her, a reward for his renewed enthusiasm. His hands find the knotted fastenings of her robe and and he tugs at them, loosening the knots, unwrapping the layers of fabric and feathers from her body. In the firelight she is all shadowed curves and tawny skin, dappled all over with eggshell freckles.

When he lifts her up she clings to him, wrapping her legs around his waist and sinking her nails into the flesh of his back, like a hunting cat locking onto her prey. He carries her to the tent, more for her comfort than his privacy — he is beyond caring about that now — and lays her down on the furs there. Tanith pulls her knees up to her chest and stretches indulgently, her smile so broad that it flashes her teeth. Her joy is an infectious thing. Blackwall feels it low in his stomach, an upswell of delight that leaves him smiling back at her.

She pulls him down on top of her, crushing his chest against hers, the softness of her skin a blessing. He presses his lips to the line of her jaw, her collarbone, circles the hard peak of her nipple with his tongue. A little shiver, words in a language he does not understand, her fingers twining in his hair. The summer-rain smell of her fills his senses. He strokes himself through his breeches, slowly, trying to ease some of the ache of wanting her. Not that, not yet. It is agony to take his time but he does, kissing up the inside slope of her thigh, nuzzling into the curve of her hip. She squirms beneath him, impatient but laughing.

He does not leave her waiting much longer. Tanith hisses when he puts his mouth to her, running his tongue along the slick warmth of her cunt. She tastes like honey, like cardamon, like the sea. Blackwall loses himself in her, taking his cues from the arching of her hips and the pressure of her heel in his shoulder. For this, if nothing else, he hopes to prove himself worthy of her attentions. He wants to bottle the noises she makes, tattoo them on his skin. Tanith reaches down, take one of his hands in hers. Blackwall can feel how close she is in the tightness of her grip. He dips a finger inside her, feeling an answering tug in his groin. She pushes into the touch, spreading her knees as she angles herself against him, high vixen yelps at the back of her throat. Then she is crying out, shuddering, riding his fingers as she peaks, scratching at his neck so hard he is sure she must be drawing blood. Almost as soon as it passes she sits up and throws her arms around him, kissing him even though his beard must be drenched with her.

Blackwall kicks off his boots and Tanith helps him off with his breeches, the process taking longer than it should as they can’t seem to stop touching each other. The way she moves is jubilant, unselfconscious, and he shares in her pure enjoyment of the moment. Tanith pulls him down onto the furs beside her, her hands almost delicate as they ghost across the battle scars crossing his shoulders. It feels right, holding her there in the circle of his arms. There is something strangely ordinary about the intimacy between them. Here, with her, he does not feel like a false Warden, like a fugitive; he wonders whether she feels the same, removed for a while from the responsibilities of Keeper and clan. Perhaps this is why she has chosen to spend the night with him.

Soon her touches are growing fervent again, moving down his stomach and teasing along the line of his hip. He takes her hand gently, guiding it to his cock, needing her. Even the silk-lightness of her fingers makes him moan, so hard he has grown waiting for this. Tanith keeps stroking as she straddles his hips, holds his gaze as she guides him inside her. The heat of her cunt around him is so profound that for a moment he can barely breathe, only lie there let the sensation wash over him. She is still wet from his earlier attentions, still swollen, and when she leans down to kiss him he can feel her smile against his lips.

Once he has collected himself Blackwall begins to rock against her, gripping her hips for purchase. Tanith matches his movements, leaning back so they can see one another. Her hair is in disarray, a few stray curls tumbling across her face, and the sheen of sweat across her chest almost shimmers in the low light. The way she rolls her body against him is more graceful than any dancer. She is the most beautiful thing he has even seen, and in the madness that comes with lust he tells her so.

Tanith throws back her head, laughs with delight. “You needn’t try to flatter me into bed,” she says. “I’m already here.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” He sits up and pulls her closer, leaning in to nibble the lobe of one pointed ear. She gasps a little at that, a detail he makes sure to remember.

They have been moving together slowly, exulting in it, but the pressure building between them has become almost more than Blackwall can bear. He half-lifts her, laying her down on her back, fingers pressing deep to the flesh of her thighs as he eases them apart. They share a brief glance, his eyes a question, hers an answer; _yes_. Permission given, he allows himself the satisfaction he has been desperate for all evening. Tanith lifts her hips as he fucks her, bringing him deeper, closer, her gaze only leaving his when she closes her eyes. He is untethered, consumed by her, her warmth and closeness and the smile playing across her lips. When he climaxes it is as if they are one body for a moment, his flesh melting into hers, her low keening a part of his marrow. He stays pressed against her for a long minute once it is over, breathing hard, his back slick with sweat.

Tanith sits up, kisses him, pushes his hair back as she did the first time she touched him. “Well. I am certainly glad you let me share your fire, Warden.”

He laughs, almost speaks his true name before catching himself. “Blackwall,” he says. “We probably should have started with that.”

“Details.” She moves to lay on her side beside him, the position accentuating the line of her body. If he weren’t so recently spent he would want her again now.

“Maker, you’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

He searches for the mockery in her words but finds none.

When she does not leave immediately he is quietly pleased, content to bask in her company for a while longer. Eventually she props herself up on one elbow, looks at him curiously.

“Where do you travel next, Blackwall?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he says, honestly. “Don’t really follow a set path. Maybe south, head for the Bannorn while the weather’s still on my side.”

“Such freedom.”

“Of a sort. Besides, I thought the Dalish wrote the book on freedom.”

“Oh, we claim to.” Tanith rolls her eyes. “But I see little freedom in being chained to your kin, spending your life in hidden places.” She is quiet for a moment, then looks at him with sudden determination. “Will you take me with you?”

The question catches him off guard. “What?”

“When you leave. Only as far as the first town. Just long enough to guide me, make sure I know enough to stay out of trouble.”

“Oh.” Disappointment settles in the pit of his stomach. “I see.”

Tanith catches his meaning immediately, shaking her head as she presses her lips to his knuckles. “That’s not why I came here tonight. I came here for you. This part only just occurred to me.”

Blackwall is more relieved than he would care to admit. “Do you want to leave the clan that badly?”

“It’s not that I want to leave them,” she sighs. “It’s that I want things I can’t have if I stay with them. One can’t happen with the other.”

“I see. Where would you go, if you left? What would you do?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know enough about the _shemlen_ world to say. But there are free mages now, aren’t there? I could go to them.”

“You’d be joining a war.”

“Better than hiding from one.”

Blackwall can’t argue with that. He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand, suddenly exhausted.

“I’ve kept you up,” Tanith says.

“I’m hardly complaining.” He looks at her and sees that she is tired too, her eyelids heavy and fluttering. In that moment he realises that he does not want her to leave, not yet. “Stay here tonight,” he says. “With me. If you’re still set on it in the morning, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

For the first time that evening she looks truly surprised. “You will?”

“If you wish it.”

That smile again. He thinks he might do anything he asked of her, as long as she kept smiling at him like that.

“Very well.” Tanith sits up, draws him close. “But we’ve a long time till morning.”


End file.
